My stomach clenches as Danny brings the Meridian down, settling it gently at the curb. Through the tinted windows, I can see the gauntlet we’ll have to run—cameras flashing, reporters shouting, a hundred eyes waiting to catalog our every move.
“Ready?” Vanguard asks.
“Hell no,” I breathe, my pulse quickening. Bayo must be picking up on this and wondering what’s happening.
“Good. Neither am I.” He squeezes my hand once, then releases it. “Stay close, darlin’.”
Darlin’. If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d be swooning at his past-cowboy self coming through.
Danny opens the door, and Vanguard steps out first, unfolding from the car to his full height. The crowd noise swells—cheers, screams, his name being called from every direction. He turns back and offers me his hand, and I take it, letting him help me from the car with a grace I definitely don’t feel, keeping my knees together as much as possible so I don’t indecently expose myself.
The cold air hits my bare skin immediately—cold and sharp, raising goosebumps along my arms and back. It jolts me away just as the cameras explode, and suddenly, I can’t feel anything except the blinding assault of flash after flash after flash.
“Vanguard! Over here!”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Is this your girlfriend?”
“Is that the journalist?”
“Give us a smile!”
Vanguard’s hand finds the small of my back—warm palm against bare skin, strong fingers splayed possessively across my spine—and the contact anchors me. Heat radiates from his touch, chasing away the chill, making me hyperaware of every inch of his skin.
“Just keep walking,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. “Don’t look at them. Look at me.”
I look up beside me.
Those cornflower blue eyes, steady and calm, are fixed on my face like I’m the only person in the world, like the screaming crowd and the flashing cameras and the chaos around us simply doesn’t exist.
“There you go,” he says softly. “Just like that. Watch your step.”
We move up the red carpet together, his hand never leaving my back. I can feel the heat of him through my thin dress, can smell his cologne—cedar, sandalwood and something moremasculine—every time I breathe. The silk whispers against my thighs with each step, and I’m acutely aware of the picture we must make. America’s golden boy and the girl in red.
If only they knew what I really am, that Mia Baxter doesn’t really exist, that this is all the grandest of lies.
Inside, the gala is a fever dream of wealth and power.
Crystal chandeliers drip from ceilings that soar three stories high, scattering light across marble floors and gilded columns. Waiters in white gloves circulate with champagne flutes and canapés arranged to resemble art pieces. A string quartet plays something classical in one corner, the music almost drowned out by the hum of conversation and laughter—the sound of the elite congratulating themselves on surviving the societal collapse they helped create.
I grab a champagne flute from a passing tray and take a long sip, letting the bubbles fizz on my tongue. The liquid is cold and crisp, and while this dress wasn’t cheap, I’d wager a bottle is probably worth more than my entire outfit.
“Pace yourself,” Vanguard murmurs. “Long night ahead.”
“I can handle my champagne.”You have no idea.
“I don’t doubt it.” His hand is still on my back, thumb brushing back and forth over my skin, making it very hard to concentrate. When was the last time someone touched me like this when it wasn’t a honeytrap?
And then I’m reminded, like a slap of cold water to the face, that thisis, in fact, a honeytrap. Just a different one.
“I just want you coherent for the dancing,” Vanguard adds.
My heart flutters despite myself. “Am I dancing with you?”
“Me and only me.”
The confidence in his voice should annoy me, let alone his possession. Instead, it sends a shiver down my spine that I do my best to suppress.
